


At the Tower Of Babel, They Knew What They Were After

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: You Make Me ___________________. [2]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Depression, M/M, brief allusions to child abuse, emotional ambiguity, generally disturbing, lack of personal boundaries, triangulation of desire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always something you're dying to reach out and touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Tower Of Babel, They Knew What They Were After

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a line in the song, Land/Land Of A Thousand Dances/La Mer De, by Patti Smith.  
> I don't know what else to warn for without laying out the story, but if you think that any mention, however small, of anything pertaining to the Newcastle storyline in either Hellblazer or Constantine might bother you, maybe you shouldn't read this story. There's nothing graphic, but please use your discretion, Dear Readers.  
> This takes place after "God's Consolation Prize".  
> I am not associated with the production of Constantine, and this school is not associated with the production of Constantine. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

For someone who wanted no part of John Constantine, Ritchie's recently seen a lot of those parts. If he thought the last time they met would bring some revelation some-  
Closure, supplies a part of him that should really know better. If he thought that the last time would actually be the last time, well, he was wrong. The darkening sky knows how wrong he was. The ground carpeted with dead leaves knows. The cab driver would know, if he'd asked Ritchie, said anything other than 'Hello', 'Where to?', 'Twenty-two, seventy', and 'Good night'. Ritchie didn't want to tell him, anyway.  
He's not so drunk, this time. Not for lack of trying. Sometimes, it doesn't work, and he doesn't get out of his head, like he wants to. He just gets slightly stupid, which might be why, when the front door opens and he finds himself face-to-breastbone with Chas Chandler, he just sort of stutters, “Wha-what?”  
“Nice to see you, too,” Chas replies, ever-steady, like an island that's the peak of a mountain beneath the sea, “Come in. Are you hungry? I made dinner...”  
“John?” is all he can say, feeling like he should just turn around, walk his ass back out to the road. Maybe lie down in the middle of it, too.  
There's a young lady there, sitting at the dining room table with John, and the feeling doubles. What did he think was going to happen? For all that he hurts people like it's his function in life, John has never been short on friends. People are drawn to him. Of course they are. Isn't Ritchie? He's had years to wash John Constantine out of his brain, but one taste, and the man's in his blood. Why did he come here? What does he want?  
He lets the young woman- 'Zed'- introduce herself. Her presence is as warm and sweet as the winter sun. What on earth is she doing here?  
“A Zed and Two Noughts,” he murmurs.  
“What's that?” She smiles, the smile of someone not unused to handling those with a gentle grasp on reality. Instantly, he feels terrible for her.  
“It's a, it's a film,” he says, making a brushing motion with his hand, “I saw it, once, years ago. For a long time, I thought I'd dreamt it.”  
“Oh. How do you know John?”  
“We were, uh, acquainted when the world was a much younger place, and we, along with it. We had some common interests.”  
“So, Ritchie, why've you come? Not to talk obscure films. Or to act as my unauthorized biographer.” This is John speaking. Ritchie forgot how truly cruel he can sound- not petty, not mean, not even merely nasty. But cruel. There's a special quality to his voice- like the serrated petal that breaks off when glass falls a certain way. However you touch it, you'll cut yourself open.  
For a moment, Ritchie almost feels bad for him- no one likes to have two or more of their lives collide. Especially a life as old as the one Ritchie represents. A skin long-ago shed, thought to have decayed. In front of you, now, asking to be worn again.  
“I came,” Ritchie says, not feeling so bad anymore, “to further discuss what we were talking about the other night. I asked you a question, and you told me that you'd give me an answer when you figured it out. I've come to check on your progress.”  
“I've got work to do. At my apartment,” says Zed. Ritchie wants to apologize, to tell her that he's not usually like this, that he's usually good at holding himself together, but he just needs-  
He can't tell her that.  
She says good night to everyone, thanks Chas for dinner, and she's out the door. That's one.  
“Are you going to tell me what the fuck you're talking about- if, indeed, you even know?”  
“I'm going to take care of the dishes,” says Chas.  
Once his back is turned, Ritchie leans in close to John. “I wanted to see you again.”  
“Then you call, and ask if it's all right to come over.”  
“This is no time to develop boundaries,” he laughs, then looks over John's shoulder to make sure that Chas is still occupied.  
“What do you really you want? Or did you come all this way for a fuck?”  
“Maybe I did.”  
“I got the impression that it was something of a fool's errand.”  
He shakes his head. He whispers, “It doesn't mean I don't want to.”  
John sighs. “All right. But not yet. You're a mess. Just sit here, and behave yourself. Try to pull yourself together.”  
“Okay.”  
John goes to tell Chas whatever he wants to tell him, and Ritchie expects Chas to bid him farewell, but instead, they both come back to the table and sit down. John's holding a bottle.  
“Chas is just going to join us for a drink, and then you and I can discuss that other matter.”  
“Fine,” Ritchie says, blinks. He's starting to feel like he deserves this- whatever he gets. A drugged drink to put him to sleep- some kind of intervention- a complicated brush-off- an attempt to talk Chas into a three-way. Ritchie doesn't know what he wants anymore. Usually, he can identify what he doesn't want, but that ability's left him, too. Why did he come here?  
Now, John's filling in Chas as to the last few weeks of his acquaintance with Ritchie. The parts about Jacob Shaw's alternate dimension; not the parts about fucking. Chas, for his part, listens with interest, genuine or politely feigned.  
“Ruler of his own bloody universe, and he just gave it up,” John says, in his cruel voice, pats Ritchie's hand, “Not many people would do that.”  
“That's true,” says Chas, ever-steady.  
“Not many people would ask you to,” Ritchie says, looks into John's eyes, “Or expect you to actually do it. That's the truly exceptional thing.” And fuck John if he thinks he's the only one who knows how to be cruel.  
But John laughs. All the cruelty just drains out of Richie's body, and he just wants- He wants to be held, and petted, and he thinks of a line he read, someplace: something about 'she could only receive comfort from the one who had injured her'. He'll have to look it up when he gets home.  
“I'm going to go,” Chas says, leaving his drink untouched. He stands. “Don't you kids stay up too late.”  
John snorts dismissively, and stays where he is, looking at Ritchie. Ritchie can hardly do anything but stare right back at him, listening to the door open and close behind Chas. John's still looking at Ritchie as he drains the glass that Chas left behind. “I'd offer you some, but I'm sure you're already pretty well lubricated.”  
“Not yet,” Ritchie says, letting his eyelids fall, in annoyance or in invitation.  
John laughs again, finishes his own drink. “Are you ready, or do you want to just skip to the regret?”  
He stands. “Anything worth doing is worth doing right; I'd like to actually have something to regret.”  
John shrugs, picks himself up, too. “The first move's yours.”  
Is this mercy? Is it pity? Both, probably. Neither. He places his glasses on the table, lets John fade just a little bit. Puts his arms around John, spends a long moment just feeling him, the mass of his body; taking in the scent of his cigarettes and his soap. Presses his mouth against John's throat, where he feels his pulse, lets the beats paint his lips. If he's going to be humiliated, or pitied, or absolved, or whatever it is John's actually doing when he fucks you, he's going to do it his way. He licks against John's heartbeat, then higher, under his jaw. At some point, John put his arms around him, is holding him in a way that's more tender than carnal, and Ritchie would be lying if he said that this wasn't why he came all the way here. Just to be held by a man he'll happily admit to hating, whose reservoirs of good will toward him he's dangerously close to using up. But the tension leaves his body, like he wished it away, and he feels himself unwinding around John, kissing his throat, and now, his mouth,clumsily moving aside his tie to uncover more of him.  
“Let me do that,” John says, peevish but soft, and places his hands on Ritchie's for a moment before taking off his tie, and unbuttoning his shirt.  
“Just take it off,” Ritchie exhales.  
John raises his eyebrows. “Yours, too.”  
“Okay.” He's wearing more layers, so it takes him longer, and he's watching John, the whole time. And it's not hunger he feels, but the memory of hunger. A dream about it. It puts him in a strange place, makes him want things he shouldn't want, because they're impossible. If he thought he understood this-  
Well, he was wrong, obviously.  
His hands stall at the hem of his tee shirt.  
“Can I help you, there?”  
“Oh,” he looks down.  
“You don't have to-”  
“I know I don't,” he snaps, shakes his head, “I know. Thank you. For your consideration. I know it doesn't come easily. I just don't like being treated like there's something wrong with me. Even if there is.”  
“It's not your fault,” John says, softly.  
“I don't usually care this much. Usually, it doesn't matter. You'd be surprised at what little relevance sex has to my life. Honestly, I didn't even notice that anything was wrong until someone mentioned it as a potential side-effect of the medications. Then,” he touches a finger to his head, “everything sort of clicked. I remembered how long it had been, and how I hadn't even wanted to, because, because-”  
“Because all you could think of was her, and what they'd done to her.”  
And what could be happening to her, now, and how much worse they'd made it. And how he should just let it go, because it wasn't his pain, didn't belong to him, and who was he to hurt this much? When she was the one who- His stomach twists, his throat twitches, as he feels that marine panic wash over him, wild and bitter. Involuntarily, he turns his face away, clenches his eyes shut. “Can we not talk about this?”  
“You don't have to tell me twice.”  
“Thank you. Just- just do whatever you want. I don't want to think anymore.”  
“Okay. It's okay.”  
John puts his arms around him again, and Ritchie lets himself sink in. Without pushing John too far away, he gets out of his tee shirt, feels John's skin against his. Leans up and kisses John, gently bites at his lips, gets kissed harder in response. He puts his hands on John's hips, presses into him, lets John rub against him, feels the difference in the way he's touched. Lets John hold him against a wall, face against his shoulder, mouth all over his skin. Lets himself be turned around, feels John's mouth on the back of his neck, his hands creeping downward.  
“You wanna fuck me right here?” he asks, “You'd have to get something for me to stand on.”  
John laughs, the flutter of his breath against the back of Ritchie's head. “Come on.” He pulls Ritchie along gently to his bedroom.  
Where the light is on for them, this time. It's too much like daylight; it's disorienting. Nothing day-time should be around them.  
“Turn out the light,” he says.  
“No.”  
“John-”  
“I want to see you.”  
“Oh...” God help him, he actually looks away, his head turning down and to the side involuntarily, and he knows what he looks like, and what John must think. Whatever he's thinking, John must have already thought it. In his heart Ritchie's only ever been an instrument, waiting to be played. Is he blushing?  
Then, John eases him back, onto his bed, kisses his mouth and his neck and his shoulders, lavishes on him fruitless caresses. For the verisimilitude, Ritchie supposes. To pretend that this is real.  
He's naked, on John's bed, with John still half-dressed. He rubs himself up against John's trousered leg; if John wants verisimilitude, he's going to get it.  
“That doing anything for you?” John asks, breathy, distracted.  
“It's not without its charm.”  
“Fuck this,” says John, undoes his pants, takes Ritchie's hand, and moves it down. Ritchie laughs, first to himself and then aloud.  
“All right,” he says, “All right.”  
An observer would be forgiven for thinking that, in his way, he gets off on this: having John Constantine under his thumb. So to speak. Any relationship with John is a matter of debts and payments. Does he owe John, or does John still owe him? Is it possible to live in a state of eternal debt? If so, John certainly does. But Ritchie can give him a little bit more. On credit.  
“You want me?” he says against John's ear, grips him tightly.  
John breathes out, harsh and wounded. “Yes.”  
“I'm right here.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah.”

“Shit. Fuck.”  
It's a long way to come just to turn around, but there's no other option.  
“Fucking keys.”

With a kiss, John's off of him, and Ritchie turns. It's like a post-hypnotic suggestion, a motion that suggests somnolence but not exactly sleep. He's falling into a waking dream. A dream about John's shape and weight behind him. A dream about being opened like a door.  
It's a dream about being nineteen years old, and finding out for the first time that there was a world aside from the one he dwelt in. A dream about being up to his elbows in dusty grimoires and science texts, and dubious internet postings- and how wild it was. How wild. To find that what he'd intuited, back in the half-light of his bookish childhood, was real. And it was available. To him! He could have everything he wanted. He just had to be student enough to sift through the lies and find- the truth? Didn't matter! Even the lies had value.  
And John is lying on him, half on him. Inside of him. Ritchie might be half-dead, where it matters, but, yeah, this is doing something for him. It's the same peculiar sensation as last time, all tension and half-pain, all twilight feeling, giving with one hand and taking with another. It might not be reasonable, but he does want this. And he realizes, perhaps far too late: he wants more of John. As much as he can have. He pushes against him, in a supple movement that's going to tell on his bones tomorrow.  
“Fuck,” John whispers.  
“Yeah. That's the idea.”  
“No- no.”  
“What?”  
“It's- no- wait.”  
“I'm waiting.” He takes more of John's weight, lets him fall a little bit. He's so warm. The heat is coming off of him. Like a miniature sun. Like any warm-blooded creature would supply, but John is the one he has. His very own exothermic reaction. Smelling of cigarettes and whiskey, smelling of old memories.  
Memory is good. If he remembers, he has a past. He's lived. All is divided. Between that time, and after. But divided, once again, now, because of John: Before Newcastle, and After Newcastle; Before Shaw, and After Shaw. So, it's only fitting that John should split him, after a fashion. He moves again, in the way that John loves. Or hates. Or both. And again.  
“Don't stop.”  
So, Ritchie does stop. Brings his body to a halt. Falls like the dead. And John is left, against him, exhaling roughly like he's out in the cold.  
“You don't like that,” says Ritchie.  
Breathing heavily: “You'd be surprised at the things I like.”  
“Just take a moment,” Ritchie says.  
John is still, against him, trembling, almost vibrating. When Ritchie tells him to start again, it's out of sheer self-preservation. His bones ache, and he's beginning to feel an unpleasant sense of fullness, inside. No one ever talks about how messy this can be.  
“Yeah?” says John.  
“Yeah.”

The door is, of course, open. There were unusual sounds, and unusual sounds are, of course, for investigating. To make sure, of course, that nothing untoward was happening. Of course. One never knows with John. And Ritchie- violence doesn't suggest itself with him. But it does, with John. It screams, in provocation. He saw the clothes on the floor, in the living room. He should have put it all together. He probably did. But he just had to make sure. What kind of person would he be if he didn't?  
Caring for others is its own punishment.  
What kind of person does it make him that, seeing what he now sees, he can't look away?  
Ritchie is face-down, on John's bed, hands wrapped up in the bed clothes. John is behind him, all wrapped up in Ritchie. Chas is in the door frame, waiting for them to turn around. And whatever that will bring. He tells himself that he can't stop whatever comes next. Some things must simply be endured. Some knowledge demands payment, and will have it whether or not you sought it out.  
He places his hand against the door frame. Watches.  
He really needs to be more careful about not misplacing his house keys.


End file.
